


Seeds of Rebellion

by forestpenguin



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, BAMF Leia Organa, Cassian Andor-centric, Child Leia Organa, Fest, Fusion of Star Wars Legends and Disney Canon, Gen, Naboo - Freeform, POV Cassian Andor, POV Leia Organa, POV Padmé Amidala, Padmé Amidala Lives, Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Pre-Star Wars: A New Hope, Senator Andor of Fest, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Young Cassian, and creates the Rebellion, and takes Cassian under her wing, yoda's only in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-04 12:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestpenguin/pseuds/forestpenguin
Summary: Padmé lives, if only to remedy her sins.(and mentor a Festian boy in the ways of the Senate)





	1. Chapter 1

On the day the Republic died, the Empire was born.

On the day Anakin Skywalker died, Darth Vader was born.

On the day Padmé Amidala died, Luke and Leia were born.

This is what the galaxy knows to be truth.

Divisions are never this simple, not when the Living Force works so mysteriously. It swirls, thrumming with life and the complexities of living, blurring lines between black and white with iridescent colour. Indeed, the lines are as blurry as a tauntaun’s vision in a hailstorm, lethargy and sub-zero temperatures having the same effect of one of Corellia’s notorious spiced whiskeys.  

The shroud of darkness rises and falls, and suddenly everything is at once clear as one of Alderaan’s many glacial lakes and as murky as the depths of Coruscant’s sewers.

The Republic had always been rotting from the inside, its artificially golden aura of glitz and glamour masking the stench of decay. The Empire is new in name, but the corruption that fed it had been festering for decades.

Padmé knows this now. So naïve she had been, to believe the entire galaxy valued truth and justice as much as she – to think that the man behind all this chaos hailed from the same planet as herself.

To think she hadn’t noticed, to think even the _Jedi_ hadn’t noticed his machinations – it’s an oddly reassuring realization. If Master Yoda, nine centuries of experience etched in his features, hadn’t sensed the evil within the former Chancellor until it was too late, what could a hopeful and ambitious young girl have done?

 _Better,_ she thinks. She might have not recognized the Sith Lord sharpening his weapons, but she should’ve noticed the change in Anakin. Done more to reassure him, taken his worries to the Jedi – to Obi Wan, at least, who would’ve understood the difference between love and obsession, between compassion and attachment.

Her friend gazes down at her sadly, the same regret written in the creases of his forehead and eyes.

But it is too late, and the Republic is the Empire, and her Anakin is dead.

She wants to follow his footsteps, follow the path of the Republic and the rest of the Jedi (the _younglings_ ) and succumb to the endless darkness behind her eyelids –

But Luke coos, and Leia looks at her with wide brown eyes –

And guilt weighs down on her shoulders.

She needs to live, if only to rectify her sins.

So she sits with Bail on one side and Obi Wan on the other, her children in her arms as she looks to the last of the Jedi.

“Tell them I died,” Padmé says, gently rocking a squirming Leia. “And that the children died with me.”  

“Arrange for a funeral, we must,” Yoda says solemnly.

“And the children?” Bail asks. “How will you hide with two infants?”

“Hidden, safe, the children must be kept,” Yoda interjects, looking at Padmé. “ _Disaster_ if the Emperor finds them, will it be.”

“We must take them somewhere where the Sith cannot sense them,” Obi Wan adds. “That includes you, Padmé.”

“No,” she shakes her head, curls sliding over her shoulder. “I have work to do.” She looks at Bail.

“We must split them up. I can’t bring- I can’t bring them with me.” Her voice falters and she looks down at the twins. The three of them being separated so soon after birth – it breaks her heart, truly, but it must be done.

Obi Wan meets her gaze with sad eyes.

“My wife and I will take the girl,” Bail says softly. “You know we’ve always talked of adopting one.”

She nods, and her lips curve into a gentle smile. “She will be loved with you, I know it.”

“And the boy?”

She locks eyes with her husband’s beloved mentor, and she knows what must be done. “Take him back to _his_ family.”

“I will watch over him – make sure he knows the ways of the Force when it is time,” Obi Wan says. “And I will make sure he is safe and loved.”

“That is all I can ask for,” Padmé replies.

“But what about you?” Bail asks. “What are you going to do?”

“The Loyalist committee – the Delegation of Two Thousand.” Bail nods, much to the confusion of the two Jedi.

She explains: “We thought we could soothe this war with words and diplomacy, and we failed – but now I know we never could have succeeded, not with Palpatine’s real intentions.”

“What about it now?”

“There are people in the Senate who will never support this Empire. But instead of words, we must _act_.”

“You mean-”

“We must rebel.”

* * *

Padme learns, painstakingly slowly, that the realities of the galaxy are darker and more complicated than anything she could ever have imagined, like a slimy tentacle grasping at her ankles in the dark.

The Empire is the Republic.

Darth Vader is her husband.

She is a rebel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a idea last night and this is essentially a stream of consciousness that I wanted to post. More to come, and Cassian will show up very soon!


	2. Chapter 2

A chilly gust of wind and snow nips at her heels, following her into the tiny room. The door falls shut behind her, the snowflakes still clinging to her worn-out boots already starting to melt in the radiant heat of the crackling hearth.

The flames’ glow flits across the features of those gathered around it, and once Padmé discards the outermost layer of her clothing she joins the others.

One of the women gathered there, with years of experience showing in the hard lines of her mouth, hands her a cup of steaming tea. She accepts it with a soft _gracias,_ suddenly thankful for the tea’s warmth coaxing feeling back into her fingers - and Bail’s hard-wrought lessons in High Alderaanian.

They all understand Basic here but Padmé knows isolated communities throughout the galaxy prefer an off-worlder who has some grasp – more importantly, respect – of their culture. It was something the Separatist leadership lacked and the Republic ignored. It’s something the Empire sought to quell.

Rebellion has many different forms, and sometimes a simple cup of spiced tea is one of them. 

She pulls the cowl of her cloak tightly around her face, then tugs her thickly woven scarf away from her mouth so she can take a sip. A soothing warmth courses through her tired body, tingling with the aftertaste of spices used for sweetening. They sting her tongue, gently bringing colour back to her features.

The woman gently smiles at her.

She is a member of Fest’s resistance against the Empire – a remnant of the Separatist cell that once revolted against the Republic.

At once, a friend and an enemy.

Padmé had heard of Fest only once before, a protest at the Republic’s military installation on Carida briefly mentioned to her in passing. In those days, she had been one of the most vocal opponents against the Republic’s ever-expanding Clone Army and the Festian voices on Carida sang the same song. But they were Separatists, too small and unimportant for a voice in the Senate, so when they pushed the Republic pushed back – several times harder.

Relations were strained so push turned to shove turned to _snap._

The Separatist factories on Fest churned out phrik for high tech weaponry, and the Empire merely picked up where the Separatists had left off. They’re stripping the planet bare for something nobody on-planet knows about.

In the past, Padmé would have said the Empire stepped in to fill the gap left by the Confederacy. But in the minds of a Festian, with a context she has grown to understand after half a decade of outreach, it was the Republic’s negligence of the Festian people that had created the void. The Confederacy became the Empire, the Republic became the Empire –

The lines are as blurry as her vision in the blizzard outside. Hard to focus on seeing when ice pellets scratch her face, with only a tightly wrapped cowl and scarf at her defense. Hard to see when snow falls so thickly and the wind whips loose curls of hair around. Hard to think when the cold makes it past four layers of fabric, pushing fingers and toes to the precipice of hypothermia.

For the Festians, at least, seeing is rather simple. They had always rebelled against oppression, whether the oppressors were the Republic or the Empire it didn’t matter. Fest’s cold seeps in, undeterred like the rebellion it gave rise to. They rebel, time and time again, with the credits of the Separatists –

And hopefully, now, the fledgling Rebel Alliance.

But the outstretched hand of the Separatists had slapped them and thus the resistance was reluctant to reach out once again.

This is where Padmé steps in, an envoy of the Alliance.

She’s partway through the conclusion of her passionate petition when the front door bursts open with a bang.

“Clear the table!”

She doesn’t know much Festian, the accent is thicker than High Alderaanian and the language boasts an ancient vocabulary littered with almost-synonyms, but moans of pain are universal in every language and Padmé clears the space just in time for the boy to be unceremoniously plunked on their excuse of a dining table.

Or an operating table, apparently.

Blood seeps from a shrapnel wound, the leg of his pants hiked up past the knee to reveal the injury. Boots are hastily unlaced and discarded at the front entrance, and the old woman stops tending to the fire in favour of the injury.

There are more pressing wounds but Padmé turns away as soon as they start tearing open his jacket to reveal a mess of blood and flesh.

She never had the stomach for warfare.

Instead her gaze turns to the boy who had carried the injured rebel in, the one who’d interrupted her speech with his urgency.

There’s a small cut on his forehead and an angry red scrape on his jaw.

 _This_ , she knows how to handle. Knowing that supplies are scarce and were more urgently needed for the boy clinging to dear life on the dining table, she unravels her scarf.

“You’re hurt,” she says, and beckons to the other boy.

“I’m fine,” he replies in thickly accented Basic. “Thank you.”

“You’re bleeding, and I have nothing else to do.” Her lips curl and a smile tugs at her cheeks. “So please, entertain me.”

She sits in the corner of the room furthest from the rescue mission, and motions for the boy to sit beside her. He grudgingly obliges, and she begins to tear at the fabric. Padmé dips the rag in the hot water, squeezes the water out it, and carefully begins to wipe away blood.

She gingerly dabs at the blood trickling from the gash, but he still winces. Pain softens the wariness in his features, and his contorted look tugs at her heart.

“What’s your name?” she asks, tearing off another piece of fabric.

The boy closely watches her movements with dark eyes.

“Cassian,” he replies, after a moment’s hesitation. “You’re the off-worlder.”

“I am.” She lifts the newly wetted piece of fabric to his face, and hesitates.

She remembers a little boy meeting her, an off-worlder, for the first time. Grime smudged his nose and childish wonder lit his voice:

_Are you an angel?_

She quashes the memory back into the depths from which it came, and focuses on the task at hand. She switches duties, pressing the fabric to the cut to stem the bleeding.

“How old are you?”

His eyes dart between her hand and her face.

“Twelve standard.”

Barely a teenager, far too young to be on the front lines of conflict – and Force knows how long he’d been serving the resistance. She shifts her gaze back to the cut. Blood seeps through the fabric and she folds it, adding pressure.

“You aren’t going to take me away, are you?”

Now Padmé’s eyes snap towards his, and she holds his gaze – unwavering, burning with resolve, unfathomable depths brimming with sadness.

She remembers herself at twelve, cheeks rosy with the warmth of Naboo’s sun and the pink powders of her mother’s makeup collection. Adults criticizing her every move as she started vying for the soon-to-be-vacant throne. Tutors crowding every spare hour of her day, leaving her with very few moments of true quiet.

Those, she spent with a happy family on the beautiful shores of a pristine lake.

Back then, she was told her life was far more difficult than any other tween – the path to monarchy on Naboo was grueling and she was one of the youngest to ever complete it.

But she looks at these eyes now, and knows they’ve seen indescribable horrors, and knows her journey was nothing in comparison.

“Of course not,” she whispers soothingly. “I have no right to take you away from your home, or your family. Only if you want to leave, then-”

“I have no family, and my home was destroyed. I serve the resistance.”

His words are flat and Cassian keeps his face painfully neutral, but there’s a flare of rebellion in his tone right before he falls silent.

Padmé rips off a clean piece of fabric and holds it to the cut, sticking it in place with some spare adhesive. She moves away and his hand subconsciously hovers over the bandage, smoothing the adhesive into place.

“Thank you.”

She jerks her head, already wetting another cloth to wipe the grime from his face.

“What happened?” She feels him tense under her touch, and leans away, wringing the cloth.

“You can trust me.” She approaches the scrape again, and wishes she had the medkit she left behind on her ship.

“I know. The elders wouldn’t have let you in here otherwise.”

Padmé smiles, and Cassian’s stoic face is betrayed by his lips parting into a smile in response.

“Have you eaten today?” One glance at the boy’s thin frame gives Padmé her answer, but she asks anyways.

He presses his lips together.

“Because you couldn’t or you _can’t_?” she presses further. Was there no food left for him, or had whatever happened left him queasy?

He blinks, caught in her web of words. Padmé plunges her hand into the depths of her pocket, fumbling for a moment before procuring ration bar.

“I am no cook, so this is all I can give you,” she says a little sheepishly. Six years on the run, and she still found herself struggling to cook a proper meal – then again, her definition of proper was likely more refined than almost the entirety of the galaxy.

Such was the life of a fallen Senator.

“No thank you,” he waves his hand. He looks at her awkwardly, caught between a polite smile and a expression that still harboured some suspicion. Padmé pushes the bar forward and it bumps against the side of his hand.

“Eat. No matter what happens, you must eat, and keep going.”

She repeats the words of a ghost of her past. The first to find her after she and her children had parted ways. After her initial burst of resolve burned out, leaving with her nothing but a gaping maw of sadness instead of a heart.

Those were dark days.

Cassian’s lips twitch, and his eyes shine brighter in the dim blue light of the sole window.

“You sound like my mother.”

Padmé’s body aches. A flickering image of a young Leia babbling nonsensically, on the brink of falling over onto an Alderaanian carpet, comes to mind.

“Then you must take it.”   

He looks down at her outstretched hand, eyelashes caressing the skin just under his eyelids. Cassian hesitantly takes the bar. The wrapper crinkles against his fingers as he unwraps it and takes a cautious bite.

“It won’t taste very good,” Padmé warns with a slight smile. “But it’s healthy enough, and it’s filling.” She watches him chew methodically, as if she was scared he’d eat the wrapper as well. Her head drifts to the side making her curls sweep over her shoulder.

He pointedly avoids her eyes, and for the boy’s sake she looks over to the gathering around the table. The single light fixture swings above the gathering, presumably bumped in the rush, casting dancing shadows around the room.

“Troopers,” Cassian begins in between bites. “He’s never really done this work before. I used to do it too, you know, throw bottles as a distraction, then run messages. But – he’s new to real fighting, this whole infiltration and assassination thing, and he wasn’t careful, and a riot broke out, and-”

“Eat first,” she chides gently. Padmé can’t help but notice the slight tremble in his voice, and suspected it was just more than want for food. She rises, finding a clean glass and pouring Cassian a cup of lukewarm water.

“He’ll be okay, he’s in good hands.”

“He won’t be able to fight anymore, I told them I could do it myself, I’ve proven that they don’t need to send anyone else but now-”

“It’s not your fault.” She grips the glass tightly, recognizing the beginnings of a dark, dark path. “It’s not your fault,” she repeats sternly. “It’s not theirs either.”

“I know.” He sighs, shakily, and then fidgets with the wrapper, folding it neatly in half with precision. “I just wish-”

“The Force has a plan for us,” she says softly, “and we can only try our best to do what we think is right. Everything else-”

“Is the will of the Force. I’ve heard,” Cassian replies, looking down at his lap. He creases the folds of the wrapper. “It’s hard to trust in it in the middle of a war.”

“I know,” Padmé breathes, remembering an invisible hand at her throat. “That’s why I’m telling you.” She hands him the glass of water.

He takes a tiny sip, only to turn when the old lady approaches them.

“Pablo will be fine. His life is saved, and he will continue to serve the resistance.” The woman sets a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, and smiles at Padmé.

Her lips part in a moment of fleeting surprise. She had misheard – Palo was a letter off, but long-forgotten memories spring to mind. When the woman leaves, Cassian speaks up.

“You know someone?”

She’s startled. “You’re observant.”

“I’ve been told. It’s a useful skill.”

“It is. Especially in politics.” She studies him more carefully now, notices how he sits with grace and poise. She recalls his eloquence, and careful demeanor. His careful attention to detail – the neatly folded wrapper sitting in his lap.

Cassian is what she is looking for.

“I’m not a fan of politicians.”

“Neither am I,” she smiles. “But you understand the importance of words. They are as good as weapons.”

“Better,” he says softly, finger tracing the rim of his glass. “That’s what my father used to say.”

“You’re not a soldier,” she muses aloud, and Cassian looks up at her, startled. “A good one, excellent, probably,” she explains, “but not a willing one.”

“I will do anything for my cause.”

“I can tell. But it hurts you.”

“I…” He returns to gazing at his reflection in the glass. He laces his fingers together and bows his head. Locks of hair sweep across his forehead – _he needs a haircut,_ Padmé thinks amusedly – and the lines of his jaw tighten.

“There’s nothing wrong in that. Doing the right thing isn’t always easy, especially when it involves hurting others. Even when they’re evil, terrible people.”

She remembers Anakin the morning after he killed the Tusken Raiders, and sees none of that anger in the boy’s eyes. She sees the same look that Obi Wan wore after Mustafar, when they all thought Anakin was dead.

Regret. Acceptance. Two sides of the same coin.

“If…. If I could give you a way to rebel that doesn’t involve warfare, and if you’re still helping your people and actively rebelling against the Imperials, would you accept?”

Cassian looks up at her.

Voices murmur in the background, and Pablo is carried off the table, into one of the rooms with sleeping mats. The tension evaporates from Cassian’s shoulders and he turns back to her.

She’s almost taken aback with how quickly his features harden with steady resolve. Warmth becomes radiance. Despite the youth clinging to his features, the added effect of the flames flickering across his face makes him look almost regal.

 “I would.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Senator Andor!”

Cassian turns, the chipper voice ringing distinctly above the hubbub of the crowd moving through the exterior halls of the Senate.

“Princess Leia,” he inclines his head cordially, formality dripping from his tone. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Leia comes to a breathless standstill before him, neck arcing back to meet his gaze with her own. She still has quite some time but Cassian suspects she won’t get any taller than this. Her presence demands attention despite it, and Cassian marvels at her ability at even this age to compensate for lack of height with strength of spirit.

The same spirit laces her voice as she rebukes him teasingly.

“Why so formal, we’re practically outside the Senate grounds, Andor?”

“You’re the one who called me Senator first, Princess.”

An undignified harrumph escapes her pursed lips and Cassian barely holds back a smile at the thought of the Princess’ poor tutor, and is grateful they don’t have to bear witness to the ease with which Leia dropped her grace and poise in favour of bluntness.

“Papá’s going back to Alderaan for the Senate recess,” she says, rocking on the heels of her feet. The white fabric of her dress swirls around her ankles as she does so, shimmering faintly in the light of the corridor – its sheen contrasts the dark brown of her hair and eyes, giving the young Princess an aura of purity and innocence.

Entirely intentional, Cassian muses. Each and every one of them are just weapons in carefully hidden holsters.

Whether they know it or not.

“He wanted me to invite you to come stay with us.”

“Of course,” Cassian responds quickly. “When have I ever said no to your father?”

“Last time you said you had a lot of work.”

He had. But it was Bail himself that had told him to stay on Courscant to keep an eye on a few Senators. Leia didn’t know.

There was a lot that the thirteen year old Princess didn’t know, on purpose, and deep in his conscience Cassian knows she would eventually find out. Whether she’d admire them or loathe them for it was yet to be seen.

“And then I said _next_ time I will come with you. I don’t lie, Leia.”

She tilts her head to the side, arching an eyebrow with suspicion. “We’re all politicians, Cassian. We all lie.”

“Not to your family, I don’t.” Leia resumes her normal stance, somewhat appeased.

“So you’ll come with us, right?”

“Of course. When are you leaving?”

“Now.”

“ _Now_? I haven’t even-”

“Now,” she repeats, lips unfurling into a grin - the directness of her statement feeling like a pointed jab at his chest.

* * *

Cassian’s fingers curl around the ornate railing as he leans forward. He takes a deep breath and Alderaan’s cool mountain air filling his lungs. The planet is pristine in more ways than one, and the glittering white of the snowcapped mountains seems to emphasize that fact. Mountains taper off into rolling green hills that morph into the greenery that lines the path towards Alderaan’s Royal Palace. An infrequent breeze ripples through the tall grass, and from his vantage point Cassian can see some of Alderaan’s prized fauna gathering around the shores of a lake.

The air around him is still, undisturbed save for the rise and fall of his own breathing.

But turmoil writhes within him.

It’s the usual feelings of what Bail likes to call _survivor’s guilt._ It coils around his heart like a slimy tentacle, squeezing the chilly air out of his lungs, tainting his breath with its malaise.

Who is he to deserve this life, this luxury? Why does he get to stand on the balcony of the Royal Palace in the heart of one of the wealthiest Core Worlds while his own people suffer? Why does he get to breathe in clean, fresh air, while his people strain to breathe under thickly polluted skies?

A soft breeze flits through the air, gently ruffling Cassian’s hair. He recoils from its touch, leaning away from the railing with a sigh.

These thoughts rarely bother him during the daytime, not when he’s wearing the mantle of solider-turned-spy-turned-Senator. They creep in like the chill of Fest during the night, and when he’s alone. Like now.

His robes itch at his skin and he absentmindedly tugs at his seemingly tight collar.

It’s all an _illusion_ , of course.

He’s not actually one of Palpatine’s yes-men, simply nodding in agreement to whatever sanctions and regulations are imposed upon his people. _Yes to more factories, yes to producing more phrik to maintain the Empire’s glory! No to spending credits on the wellbeing of workers, those funds are better spent on stormtroopers to keep the people in line!_ Saying yes to everything that maintained the illusion of Cassian, and the entirety of Fest, being a puppet dangling from Palaptine’s strings.

But he is no puppet. He’s constantly feeding information to his handler – for tongues loosen around a young, charismatic, Imperial Senator who doesn’t seem to even what _resistance_ even means – and they pass it on to…

Cassian frowns.  

_Them._

They didn’t have a name quite yet, nor a coherent form. Just a hazy group of resistance – _groups,_ as they are yet to be united under one banner. A faint outline of a promise:

A hope that Cassian is making the galaxy a better place.

He knows all of this, but he does not feel it.

Not when he sits down for a meal – alone, save his personal security droid -  and sees the vast array of fresh, steaming options neatly arranged before him on a table worth more credits his people had seen in their lifetimes. Not when he closes his eyes to the extravagant sight, only for the image of blood-soaked bandages and infected wounds to spring up in his mind.

Not when his fingers skim over the fine, golden embroidery of his clothing and he remembers those who lost extremities to Fest’s sub-zero temperatures. Not when he shifts sleeplessly under thick blankets while workers shiver helplessly in poorly heated factories.

Not when stormtroopers barely glance at his Senate ID docs before sending him off with a salute while their brethren wearing the same plastoid shells brutalize Festians who merely whisper about hope - much less stir up the echoes of resistance.

(Not to say that resistance is unheard of on Fest. On the contrary: Fest’s icy winds bend for no one.)

Cassian wishes he was truly as naïve and blind as the Imperials thought he was, unable to comprehend the extent of what he was inflicting on his people.

Yet he is far too aware. He tells himself it’s all a ruse, a fabrication to _save_ them all in the end.

Cassian doesn’t care about the names ( _traitor, traitor, traitor)_ branded on his chest, but he does care about the well-being of his people. Why else would he be standing here, anyways?

He purses his lips. Maybe if he cared more, he would be standing knee-deep in the snow as blood drips and melts through layers of ice. The wind would be whipping his hair, icy pellets stinging his eyes, and he would continue to fight. 

He wishes he was Leia, an outsider, someone who had been raised in the lap of luxury and had to _learn_ of the struggle – not live in it, breathe it, _be it._ Discover it, instead of it being passed down to him as a family heirloom.

He lost his parents, his family, his entire world, to this struggle.

Bail once said Cassian had the right to give up. To step away from the forefront, to take care of his own needs. To merely get by. To _survive –_ just as an individual.

Yet he takes up his people’s refrain, beginning where they left off.

Because it’s the right thing to do. (Because their lives are a weight on his shoulders a burden he willingly carries. His knees may buckle, but he stands.)

To him it is the _only_ thing he can do but after years in the Senate he knows others find it easiest to turn a blind eye. To be ignorant – even _willfully_ so.

It’s not a problem if you aren’t looking at it.

The breathtaking view in front of him dims and blurs, until Cassian forces his eyes shut. The pressure of tears smart the undersides of his eyelids, the dull grey skies of Fest swimming in his vision.

Why is his fate different from his enslaved people?

He hears the soft pad of cushioned footsteps behind him. Years of fieldwork – despite being buried under layers of ceremonial robes, he is still a solider at heart – whisper Bail’s name. Cassian inhales sharply, the abrupt intake of cold air dispelling his thoughts, and wills his tears to disappear back into the darkness from which they came.

“Cassian.”

Bail is painfully simple – not in attire, but how he carries himself. At home, Bail Organa is not the representative of one of the wealthiest Core planets, but a caring father.

A father raising his daughter under the ever-present shadow of the Empire.

“Senator,” Cassian turns to greet the Queen-consort of Alderaan. “Thank you for inviting me to stay with you. I’m truly grateful.” 

“Are you?”

Bail joins him at the railing. Cassian has to focus on masking his surprise, so much so he doesn’t respond for a long moment.

“Am I being disrespectful? Please forgive me if so-”

 Bail rests his forearms against the railing and lets out a drawn-out sigh. He turns to Cassian.

“The whole reason I called you here is for you to relax. To leave the world of politics and the Empire behind. Just for a little while so you can revel in your youth. To leave thoughts of the past and the future behind. For you to only focus on the present moment,” he says, and lifts a hand to gesture to the beauty of Aldera around them. When he sets his hand down, the wedding ring on his finger clinks against the railing.

 _I can’t_ , Cassian thinks. _That’s the problem._

Instead, he says, “I will try.”

Bail shakes his head. “Cassian, I can’t force you to do something that isn’t in your nature. The guilt hounds you. I should’ve known. Breha insists that mountain air works wonders on stress, but I believe it does the opposite with you.”

“Fest is a mountainous planet,” Cassian says softly as a means of explanation, eyes drawn to mountain range watching sentry on the city’s border.

So different from Fest, where everything is shades of white, blue, and grey. Faint memories of a setting star’s golden hue dancing across snowdrifts crosses his mind. Fest no longer has the luxury of sunsets. Only grey, grey skies. Day and night. Every season. On Alderaan everything is painted in vibrant colour. Snow only dusts the tips of the mountains, melting away into rivers that course through lush forests.

It is not the same. But it is enough.

“That’s not the only thing. When _I_ can’t stop fears about the future from hounding me, despite my best efforts - even at home - I don’t know how I expected someone as young and as _hurt_ as you are to be able to do better.” A frown tugs at his lips. “And perhaps, the comforts you find here in the Palace only aggravate those thoughts.”

Cassian’s head jerks towards Bail, ready to dismiss the source of discomfort, but Bail waves a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Cassian. Your body may be here but your heart is always on the front lines.” He hesitates. “As it should be.”

Bail’s shoulders rise in the beginnings of a sigh. _As it should be._ He wishes the boy – Cassian is almost twenty and an accomplished Senator but Bail still can’t help but see him as a child – had a proper childhood, filled with love instead of war. He doesn’t doubt Cassian’s family loved him dearly, but their love loses luster in the shadow of Imperial occupancy and poverty. _War._  

He wishes the boy didn’t have to think about it all the time. War should be an old man’s game. Death should only be in the minds of those nearing it, not _children._

With a start, Bail realises Cassian’s nearing the age Anakin was when he -

“It’s my duty,” Cassian says softly, and in the chill of Aldera’s mountain air, he finds the answer to his questions.

_Why is his life different from his people’s?_

_To serve them better._

His back straightens and he's no long hunched over the railing. The next gust of wind rolls over him and Cassian revels in the moment, feeling the wind ruffle his hair and coax his robes into a gentle dance. He stares blankly at them, their swaying so mesmerizing he loses all focus, but the call of a bird brings him back into reality.

He’s about to thank Bail for the clarity the conversation has provided, but when he turns he sees pots the older Senator sporting the beginnings of a frown, eyes narrowed to the distance.

Cassian opens his mouth to probe for an explanation, but he hears Leia’s voice instead.

“Dinner’s ready,” she calls, the sound of her voice proceeding her appearance in the doorway. The deep blue velvet of her dress is iridescent, and it shimmers around her in a way reminiscent of waves rippling on the face of a lake. Her hair is braided into two dark coils, pinned up and out of her face. “Mamá wants you both in there _right now._ ” A smile threatens to spill from her lips, but Leia’s eyes sparkle with determination.

 _She'd make an excellent general,_ Cassian muses. No solider would ever dare to disobey. But his dismisses the thought as quickly as it came, for he hoped he'd never have to see the day when a teenage Princess became a mastermind of war.

Cassian feels the railing dig into his side as he turns to face her. The girl he sees is entirely different from the one who frequents the halls of the Senate. Leia the budding politician is a colourless holo in compression to Princess Leia of Alderaan.

“Well, we must obey the Queen’s orders.” A sly grin tugs at the corner of Cassian’s mouth.

“Especially when it comes directly from the mouth of her Highness the Princess,” Bail says, now wearing a smile. Leia puts her hands on her hips.

“You both are coming, yes?”

Cassian nods, and moves away from the balcony.

“Good. I was wondering how I’d eat all those pasteles by myself.”

“Tamales,” Cassian says. The mountain air _is_ working its magic, and he feels lighthearted. The light of their system’s star works its way into the layers of his clothing, making him warm despite the need to pull his robes closer against the chilly air.

“ _Pasteles.”_ Leia frowns, but he can tell she’s repressing a smile.

Just this once, he thinks, and indulges in the debate.

“Tamales.”

* * *

It’s only when Cassian settles in his seat across from Leia that he realizes how hungry he is. Familiar scents waft up from the array of dishes before him, and now he easily pushes negative thoughts aside, mind clear and free to focus on his needs.

He glances up through his eyelashes and catches Bail’s quick smile towards Breha. He feels a nudge at the leg of his chair and sees Leia looking pointedly at the _pasteles_ (because the Princess always knows how to get her way).

Cassian clasps his hands under the table and turns his focus to the woman seated front and center: her Highness Queen Breha Organa. Regailty is etched into the few lines of her face, but her eyes and smile are shine with gentle vigour. He realizes all of Leia’s fire and determination must come from her mother. Where Bail is soft, steady, and patient like the planet under their feet and the rivers that thread through it, the Queen of Alderaan is the one who guides their way – like the stars above.

The Queen dismisses her aide, and he gives her a quick smile as she hurriedly leaves.

“I’ve cleared out my schedule for the rest of the evening,” Breha begins, when the door falls shut behind the aide.

“That is so kind of you, thank you,” Cassian begins to say but her lips part into a sheepish smile.

“Honestly, I need the break. And it looks like _everyone_ here deserves it too.” She raises an eyebrow at Cassian. “I feel you are much alike my husband. Always working, never _breathing_ much less _living_.”

“My life-”

“Is for your people. I know. So is mine, and Bail’s, and -” Her eyes flicker to Leia. “So is the Princess’. But you cannot help your people when you cannot help yourself, so, help yourselves.”  She gestures to the plates before them, and Cassian can feel a grin tugging at his face.

“With pleasure.”

Deep political discussions are not meant for the Organa’s dining table, so instead the three of them listen to Leia’s astute observations from her time shadowing her father in the Senate.

“-he’s such a _sleazeball,_ ”

“Leia,” Bail chides gently. Cassian hides a grin under the guise of dabbing at his face with a napkin, but he catches the glint in Breha’s eyes. “The best way to defeat an opponent-”

“-is not by name-calling, I know papá. But please, allow me the simple pleasures in life. Like calling that nerfherder-”

“ _Leia._ ”

“He deserves it!” Leia glances over to Cassian, hoping for some reassurance, or better, reinforcement, but his face is wiped clean and remains impassive. She turns to her mother who wears the same look and Leia suppresses a groan.

“You’re both so-”

“You’ll learn to deal with your antagonists in time,” Breha says. “Those old men in the Senate, they really do not understand our ways of life.”

“Basic decency, you mean.” Leia pokes at a root vegetable with vigour for emphasis. “Compassion. Common sense.”

Cassian notes the fleeting look shared between the two parents. It lingers on the threshold between pride and worry. Compassion is hard to find in a galaxy ruled by the Empire – mostly because it is discouraged. _Fear keeps the planets in line._

Leia’s statements could verge on treason to the ears of some more fervent Imperials. But she hails from one of the most protected and influential bloodlines of the galaxy, and so her parents shouldn’t worry. This is the dining room of House Organa, not the front lines or hearths of Fest, nor the crowded alleys of Jedha. The Empire has more pressing issues than the alienation of its sources of wealth.

Creases form around the curves of Cassian’s mouth, and his fork rests neglected in his grip.

“- don’t you think, Senator Andor?”

Breha’s pointed question nudges Cassian out of his reverie.

“Right, learning to handle older Imperials with graceful discussion instead of, um, using vernacular unbefitting of a princess?”

Leia presses a hand to cover her mouth.

Breha purses her lips in the beginnings of a smile. “I said, the food is lovely, isn’t it, Senator?”

He can feel the heat in his face. “Ah, yes, ah, sorry. It’s- it’s wonderful. Thank you. I…”

A phantom hand squeezes his heart at the sight of the display on his plate. “I missed this. Thank you.”

The table falls silent for a moment, missing the sounds of cutlery scraping across plates – save for Leia peering at Cassian over the rim of her glass before setting it down on the table.

Cassian’s not entirely sure what he meant. Was it the freedom to let his guard down, to _think_ in front of someone who wasn’t Kay? To not worry entirely about appearances, even for a moment?

(Or was it simply the food, so reminiscent of home?)

“It’s my pleasure, Cassian,” Breha says gently, dropping his title. “It’s the best we can do.”

Leia stares pointedly at her plate, long enough that the browns and yellows start to look green. She mulls over her mother’s words, unusually silent.

What did her family owe the young Senator? He’s assisted her father in the Senate, even running messages that required someone more important than an aide. And it’s always nice to have _proper_ Alderaanian food instead of the fancy Coruscanti nonsense – a bastardization of almost every Core World cuisine with a exorbitant price tag to boot – and there was no place _truly_ as relaxing as Aldera’s palace, so it made sense to invite him to stay with them for the recess.

But her mother’s voice and her father’s face are tinged with something… _else._

Regret? But why?

The man seated across from her – seven years her senior, with as many years of political expertise – was just another acquaintance, wasn’t he?

(Or perhaps he was yet another character that her parents seemed indebted to for some inexplicable reason, alike every other refugee that lands in their spaceport. She sighs and twirls her spoon.)

Bail cracks a _joke_ then, something about Alderaanian customs of hospitality and the abundance of glimmerfish – presumably to save Cassian from embarrassment at the cost of Leia’s, and the somber moment is forgotten in exchange for laughter.

When Alderaan’s star sets that night, its gold sunbeams find their way to the kitchen to bear witness the rarest occasion of Leia deciding to do the dishes.

(Only to flick water at the young Senator – who’s there to "oversee and offer advice” as he put it - of course. Decorum, in the safety of her home at least, is for chumps.)

* * *

“Jeron.”

“Cordé.”

Both are code names, and Cassian wonders if hers is as related to her past as his.

A cursory search, several years ago now – because a spy is a spy, no matter who they’re spying on – revealed an old scholarly article on naming conventions on a mid-rim planet now ruled by the Empire. Nothing else. No mention of any human women in her late thirties with rebellious tendencies.

A dead end, or at least an end that Cassian could safely assume is dead.

But the same could be said for Jeron. A fairly common nickname and as such it was the name Cassian’s father went by, later passed onto his son as a middle name.

It means ‘a rebel’.

He carries it now like a gift and a burden.

Perhaps Cordé understands the boon that is the identity of those long lost to the spaces between stars. Perahps it’s why she uses his code name instead, even though she knows his full name.

Or it’s just a security precaution.

“How are things?”

Her holo flickers with a stray burst of static. The connection is as secure as it can possibly be, especially with the added security of Cassian’s ship’s location on Alderaan. It’s a boon and a curse, as matters discussed in the Core are also privy to the Emperor’s prying eyes.

The debriefing must be quick and generalized, as usual.

“Same as always.”

“Your ship’s signature is different.”

Cordé tugs at the cowl of her cloak. The hood and the lighting partially obscure her features, casting half her face into a shadow reminiscent of Alderaan’s half-full moon above.

“I’m on unofficial business,” Cassian replies, and the corner of his mouth lists into an unwilling smile.

“That’s surprising.” He sees the beginnings of the same smile unfurl on his handler’s face. “I hope it has been worth it.”

“It has, surprisingly. Some invitations to dinner are actually worth accepting.”

Cordé laughs, soft yet abrupt. “That’s good to hear.”

“How are things on your end?”

“Same as always. Waiting. Searching. Hoping.”

“Any leads, from any others or I?” _Has my betrayal of my people been worth it?_ Cassian wants to ask. But he can’t, not now, not here. He could ask in person, but the last time he’d seen Cordé in the flesh he’d been barely a teenager, about to depart for Alderaan for the first time.

He could read the sadness and resignation playing across her face all those years ago, but the grainy rending of her image now prevents Cassian from getting a read on her emotions.

She hesitates, though, and it’s enough for fear and hope to flare in his veins.

“We’re gathering things. Resources. People. And there’s a particular project I think you’ll be interested in pursuing,” Cordé says.

Another directive, another mission. Another Senator to monitor, presumably.

“What is it?”

“You’ll soon be notified through the regular channels. I hope you take up the offer,” Cordé concludes, a sardonic smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

It isn’t even a question. 

“It’ll be a long term one, and if it works out we might nearing something bigger than anything we’ve ever had before.”

He bites his cheek to prevent the flurry of questions. A depot of weapons? Ships? Secrets so incriminating that the Senate would _have_ to expel Palpatine –

The last one is unlikely, but one could hope, Cassian thinks with a hint of sarcasm. The Senate is going nowhere, and becoming more redundant every day as the Emperor gains more and more powers.

But the last time he had mentioned it, Cordé had told him this:

“The day we stop believing democracy can work, is the day we lose it.”

Cassian had attempted a rebuttal, something along the lines of _but we’ve lost it,_ but Cordé heard none of it.

It had been years since then, and somehow he understands what she meant. After all, hadn’t he been raised to believe that front line combat wasn’t the only way to victory? That subterfuge and secrecy could do the same amount of damage?

If the Republic could take so long to fall, then they could wait to make the Empire do the same.

They had to.

His eyes flit back to the holo.

“I’ll await your message.”

* * *

Padmé knows he’s on Alderaan. She also knows he hadn’t hidden it from her out of spite, because there was no way he could know –

Well, the boy is observant. Maybe he suspected something, saw something in her face echoed in Leia’s. But he hadn’t raised any concerns.

His dedication to the rebel cause is commendable.

Or perhaps, his distaste for anything that wasn’t. She couldn’t blame him for it. There was nothing she and many like-minded others hated more than those who were indifferent to the suffering of others.

Ironic, as moments before she had been aching to see her daughter and been cursing her agent because of it.

Bail had offered to send her updates, but as the noose of the Emperor grew tighter and tighter – and Vader’s shadow grew closer -  Padmé dismissed the idea.

The cause is not worth the emotions of a mother who chose to leave her children – for their own good.

She settles for sporadic glimpses of the young girl whenever she appeared by her mother’s side on the HoloNet. It would have to suffice.

Her thoughts stray back to Cassian and her she feels a twinge of guilt. At least she could _see_ her family. He couldn’t.

It is reminders like these that push her to keep fighting.

So with a press of her finger, she sends Cassian his next mission. Operation Starkiller.

_Find out where all the Empire’s resources are disappearing._

_The Eldest Brother will be your ally._

“May the Force be with you,” she murmurs. “And all of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!  
> Some clarification: Corellia was referred to as the Eldest Brother of a group of planets in Legends canon, so I think they'd use it as a code name for that planet's Senator, who at that time was Garm Bel Iblis.


	4. Chapter 4

“Thank you all for arriving here on such short notice.”

Mon Mothma gently takes command, conversations quieting throughout the room as rebels begin to settle. Carrying herself with a stately grace, she moves with premediated precision. Despite her soft-spoken appearance, her presence demands attention.

It’s either that or the immediacy of what is almost literally hanging above their heads.

“I understand that our sudden request has led you to leave your posts in a manner that may have compromised your aliases within the Empire,” she continues, a fleeting glance sent in Bail’s direction. “However, our urgent message was not in vain, as what we are about to discuss today will _change everything_.”

She nods almost imperceptibly, sweeping her hand forward to guide a figure out of the shadows.

The light hits her robes first, the dark navy swirling around her ankles as she steps forward. The faint hum of background noise falls to a still silence as recognition buzzes in the air.

There’s at least one stifled gasp.

“This is Padmé Amidala, former Senator and Queen of Naboo.”

The light falls on her face as she nears the hologram table.

“She’s _alive_ ,” someone murmurs.

A smile curls across faintly tinted lips. “I am,” Padmé replies. “It takes more than the Empire to stop us.”

There are whispers of assent throughout the room. Cassian’s eyes don’t seek out the owners of the voices, and remained fixed on her features – he’s seeing his handler for the first time in thirteen years.

The years have etched themselves into her features, creases deep against the curves of her mouth. A few strands of grey catch in the light as she speaks – but the fire in her eyes shows no sign of flickering out.

She’s beautiful. Regal in a way that puts Mon’s poise to shame and evokes a brilliant memory of Queen Breha overlooking her palace’s balcony, eyes bright as she offers him insight.

“Once again I thank you on the Rebellion’s behalf all for your presence today. We’ve asked you to gather here to discuss the merits of some vital intel. Intel that _will_ change the future of the galaxy, seconded only by the creation of the Clone Army and the rise of the Empire itself. This is something unthinkable – for minds like ours, at least. We though we knew what the Empire was capable of, but we may have underestimated their power.”  

Padmé’s voice is strong, but an unidentifiable sadness keeps it in check. Cassian recognizes it for what it is: the ghosts of the past. He sees the same darkness in almost everyone he meets, including his mirror. He straightens, shifting his weight off the wall, and begins to seek out the faces he needs in the crowd.

“Let me be blunt, for time is not on our side. The Empire is building a superweapon.”

Padmé pauses, and Cassian has to appreciate her penchant for dramatic effect as she leans forwards, fingers skimming across the surface of the table gleaming with the reflections of green light.

“A planet-killer.”

“Pre _posterous,_ ” General Merrik exclaims, followed by similar objections.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Padmé says with what sounds like blunt honesty, but Cassian can’t help but hear the hint of sarcasm under her tone. “And if a dead woman’s word isn’t enough for you, then – Cassian?”

It’s time.

He steps into the spotlight – something he never willingly seeks out – and immediately sinks into his persona.

“I’m Cassian Andor, best known to you as the former Senator of Fest-”

The murmurs spring back to life, pricking at his ears. Nothing he hadn’t heard before - _Fest? Where’s that? Weren’t they Separatists during the Clone Wars?_

“- but more important, I am a longtime undercover agent with Rebel Intelligence. My most recent directive was to confirm allegations that the Empire is indeed building a planet-killer.”

 _Built with the blood of my people,_ he thinks grimly, _and so many others._

“It was quickly confirmed that large amounts of material – kyber from Jedha, phrik from Fest, _slaves_ from Kashyykk and Imperial labor camps, just to name a few– moving out from various regions of the galaxy towards a centralized location in the Atrivis sector, specifically the Horuz system. Paired with information from verified sources that the Empire is building a large-scale superweapon, there is no room for doubt that such a thing exists. But what is it capable of?”

A holoimage sparks to life over the table, a grainy image of what appears to be a solar eclipse.

“The Empire recently released a report of a mining accident on Jedha to be the cause of the moon’s partial destruction.”

Cassian seeks out a pair of brown eyes rounded with nerves.

“There’s a kyber mining operation on the moon. Intelligence has also confirmed – _I was there -_ that the “accident” was actually a test for the superweapon itself.”

“This is either karking madness, or we’re utterly f-”

Mon shoots a warning look at the latest outburst. Cassian continues, undeterred.

“The sheer magnitude of the size of this project is almost unfathomable, but indisputable.”

“What are we going to do with this information? Give up the fight? Surrender?”

“There’s no way, something that _big_ we don’t have a chan-“

 “There’s always a way,” Padmé interjects. “There _always_ is. Cassian, continue.”

“Let me introduce to you,” he nods, and a man dressed in a navy flightsuit nervously steps forward, “former Imperial pilot Bodhi Rook. On Darkknell an informant and I received word of a message that could potentially bring down this superweapon. I met Bodhi on Jedha just before the Empire’s fleet arrived.”

Cassian turns to look properly at Bodhi. The green glow of the War Room deepens the shadows of the pilot’s face, hollowing out already-worn features and darkening the circles under his eyes. But those same eyes shine brightly with determination.

“Now, if you may, Bodhi.”

“Thanks. I- um- hello, everyone.”

Faces turn to the man subconsciously pulling at the fraying and soiled sleeves of his flightsuit. Eyes flicker over the worn but prominent Imperial insignia stitched on his shoulder. Bodhi’s eyes meet his, and Cassian gives him a small smile before stepping away from the table. 

The last moment of Jedha winks out of existence as a holo of a man dressed in a crisp Imperial uniform takes its place.

“I’m Bodhi. I-I used to be a pilot for the Empire. Taking, um, cargo out of Jedha, incidentally. I didn’t know what it was back then, but now I know they were stripping Jedha of its resources – kyber, to power the, the superweapon. They call it the Death Star. It was, it was on one of my usual routes, to an Imperial research station, where I met Galen Erso.”

Cassian’s eyes flit to the girl, who perks up at the name.

“We quickly realized neither of us were willingly working for the Empire, that we had been robbed of other options. But, but one day, we did. Galen-Galen knew the Empire would build the Death Star with or without him, so he decided to work for them, But what they didn’t realize was that he was still working against them. He did something, something we can take advantage of. He didn’t tell me what it was – in case I got captured - but instead gave me a message, to bring to you-the Rebellion, in the hopes that it would help. Help end the suffering. I hoped so, too.”

Bodhi looks to Cassian, and licks his lip nervously.

“The message was compromised on Jedha,” Cassian explains. “There was a firefight, and then the Death Star arrived, wiping away all traces of evidence. But both Bodhi and Jyn Erso can vouch for Galen’s intentions-”

The hope is fragile, as thin as the ice on Fest’s industrial waste pools. One wrong step meant excruciating death.

Neither could hold up an entire army.

“An Imperial and the daughter of one?”

Bodhi tenses, arms slack against his sides. Jyn moves forward, shoulders hunched like a predator’s raised hackles.

Cassian steps forward before Jyn can reach the table.

 _Stay put,_ he thinks in her direction. He hopes she understands a wrong move now will compromise the better part of his – and her father’s – life’s work.

“Both of them have been vetted by Intelligence,” he says, and tosses a file onto the table. It skids and bumps against the naysayer’s hand. “Jyn is a member of Saw’s resistance on Jedha.”

“So an extremist-”

“But still one of _us,_ ” Cassian says, and the dip of his voice at the end is lethal. “The Rebel Alliance is just that – a group of rebels. Some more pacifist than others. Some who acted _earlier_ than others. Some who saw Palptine’s machinations for what they were much earlier than those cushioned in the luxuries of the Core.”

Years of practise keep his expression in check. His voice doesn’t shake, his hands don’t ball into fists, his visage doesn’t grow dark.

He feels the heat in his veins, though. The naysayer shrinks back into the crowd.

A Twilek shakes their head slowly. “Legitimacy aside, what is the message?”

“That there is a flaw in the Death Star, that my father created.” Jyn shoots a glance in Cassian’s direction and he nods before joining Padmé.

Padmé monitors the meeting from the shadows, hanging back as Jyn, and later, Bodhi, both attest to Galen’s hatred of the Empire and the flaw he’d built within it. Cassian’s features are arranged into a mask of indifference, but she knew there would be a phantom hand squeezing his heart at the sight of the latter part of his life’s work being scrutinized by the leaders of the Rebel Alliance.

The need to act thrums louder than his heartbeat.

That need had seemed dormant for years. She figures it’s more likely he’d channeled that passion into the task at hand. Only she – and she suspects Cassian had secrets that never reached his reports, no matter how unofficial – understood a fraction of the full fervor of Cassian’s devotion to the Rebellion. It had cost him _everything._ He’d lost more than what some rebels didn’t realize they still had.

But now the chains and labels of politics have fallen away, and all that is left is a child solider. Still grasping at the ideals of freedom someone had instilled in him under the greying skies of Fest.

“You can breathe, you know,” she murmurs, leaning ever so subtly towards his shoulder. Her eyes flicker up to his face, still adjusting to his height.

“They’re not going to do anything.”

“I know.”

He turns to look at her, eyes narrowed. The Rebel Alliance had chosen to abstain from a fair amount of battles since its formation, much to the grumbled displeasure of its various components. But even Padmé, who still carried the young woman who shied away from war, realized that not retrieving the plans to the Death Star would be a mistake of galactic proportions.

She sighs.

She _is_ also the Queen who literally took her planet’s troubles into her own hands when the Republic turned a blind eye to their struggle. She was as comfortable with a blaster as Cassian, as any other solider.

Discontent was not always a sign of weakness.

“And? You’re going to let them do that?”

His tone isn’t accusatory, only curious.

She looks at him, dark eyes framed by heavy lashes. She remembers the Clone Wars, and every misstep she, and the Republic, had made along the way.

Never again.

“If they will not act, _we_ will,” she says, brushing against Cassian’s military-issue jacket as her hand grazes against the blaster hidden within the folds of her robes. “What has to be done will be done.”

Cassian shifts, raising his chin and relaxing his shoulders as if he was trying to get a better view of the room.

“I’m going to go,” he says under his breath, low enough only Padmé can hear him.

“You haven’t wielded a blaster in years.”

“You don’t know that. Don’t be hypocritical.”

She tilts her head at him, the dark coils of her hair slipping over her shoulder.

“I never said no.”

* * *

This is what the galaxy knows to be true.

The Galactic Civil War began on Scarif, after a rogue group of rebels launched a surprise attack on the Archives and procured the plans to the Death Star – which had until then, been a mere rumor.

It is the first true victory for the Rebel Alliance. Their first step towards legitimacy.

Every youngling knows the story.

But nobody seems to know what happened to the rebel strike team that attacked Scarif.

Much less their identities.

* * *

He awakes to a bright white haze: cold bunk beneath him and sterile white sheets above.

He awakes with a scream lodged in his throat, unable to move, think. Only feel. White-hot panic only dulling to give way to sparks of pain shooting up his spine.

The pain pulls him back into unconsciousness before the anesthetics could even be administered.

He is alone in the dark.

No, not alone.

_I’ll be back soon. Be brave, Cass. Don’t lose hope._

His mother, before the door slams shut behind her, leaving him alone in the night.

The screech of blasterfire like comets under his eyelids.

The scent – stench – of cologne. Chokes out every other one of his senses, till the room of men deciding on how the fates of infinite star systems will best line their pockets with finery shrinks to a single, blurry, pinprick.

Instinct, ages old instinct forged in the heart of winter on the coldest of inhabited planet, leaves him frozen in place as weathered terrors float by.

The regulated beeping of sensors registers in his mind. Distant.

He is alive.

Cassian’s mouth sours with the aftertaste of bacta, the same tongue that convinced so many to lay down their lives for a cause he so vehemently believed – believes in – now writhes in disgust.

This time, the panic has faded to the damp remnant of a cold sweat sticking his bedclothes to his skin. This time, his eyes flutter open droopily.

The light is different, young and golden. Softer.

The medbay still cold, its impersonality leaking through the thin sheets hastily tucked around his body.

He still feels warm, though. Calm.

Something grazes his forehead.

Cassian’s eyes snap open.

A gentle hand strokes his hair. That hand is attached to a wrist adorned with a few, wide, bangles, and Cassian’s eyes move along until they land on her face.

He blinks.

“You can call me Padmé,” she says gently, and moves her hand away to pull her chair forward. “I suppose Threepio wouldn’t approve of that, but I think he can make an exception for you.” Noting Cassian’s face pinching up in confusion, she adds: “the gold protocol droid.”

“Oh.”

Padmé studies his face, as if she hadn’t spent the previous ten minutes doing exactly that. Asleep, Cassian’s expression was untouched by war or hurt: a specter of peace framed by the golden light of Yavin IV’s sun. Now it’s riddled with concern, a flurry questions barely reigned in by politeness.

She smiles a little at that. “I was a Queen at fourteen, you know. And a Senator right after that. I know exactly what questions are bothering you right now, and exactly why you aren’t asking them.”

He moves to respond, but she raises a palm.

“You need rest, Cassian. Please.”

He nods, and she drops her hand into her lap. His lips turn and Padme can’t help but smile more widely.

“You can still talk to me.”

Cassian clears his throat.

“So, does this make you Senator Amidala? Or Your Highness?”

“Neither, technically. I’m _Commander_ Amidala to you, Captain Andor.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Captain?”

“You do have a rank within the Alliance, Cassian,” she adds, taking a little relish in the distraction. “As one of our longest serving undercover agents.”

“I’ve hardly done any official work.”

“But more than enough under the table, and you did shoulder a fair part of my burdens as Fulcrum. Besides,” she adds more solemnly, “Scarif warranted you earned some sort of recognition.”

His throat bobs.

“Speaking of-”

She takes his hand instead.

“Princess Leia received the plans. She’s on the way, Cassian.”

His eyelids flutter and Padmé squeezes his hand in reassurance.

“We’re going to end this once and for all.”  

She does not tell him the Princess is missing.

She does not tell him her daughter has been taken by the Empire.

_By her father._

* * *

Princess Leia receives the plans to the Death Star.

Alderaan is destroyed by the Empire.

A plucky little droid and his companion bring the plans to Tatooine.

A farmboy, a smuggler, and a Wookie save the Princess.

(Most agree that the Princess likely saved them.)

This is what the galaxy knows to be true.

The galaxy does not know the names of everyone who died to secure the Alliance’s victory.

The names of the pilots, maybe, entrenched in the notes of a history book. A handful of names from Scarif etched on a memorial. A few of Fest’s rebels woven into lyrics of songs.

It is never enough.

It is what the galaxy does best.

Lose, mourn.

Win, celebrate.

Unite. Forget. Fall apart.

A cycle old as the Force itself. 

* * *

The war had only just begun.

She watches, now, as Luke and Leia – _her children –_ laugh amongst the other pilots. Smiles a little, hands clasping together.

She’ll tell them soon enough.

She’ll tell them after the adrenaline burns away, after Leia sheds tears for the only parents and home she’d ever known, after Luke mourns the uncle and aunt that raised him. The old, mysterious man he’d barely known.

An ocean of grief laps at her ribcage, waves trying to pull her into its depths.

 _Anakin,_ she thinks.

He’d killed Obi Wan.

And to think, just over 19 years ago, they had all thought the reverse had been true.

Obi Wan, dead. Bail, dead. Breha, dead.

Anakin – better off dead.

She is alone.

Sadness threatens to wreak havoc, and she busies herself with adjusting her bun.

Footsteps approach, the off-putting rhythm echoing underneath the celebrating crowds.

“There’s a lot of work to be done,” Cassian says. She turns to look at him, but his eyes are fixed on the seemingly harmless patch of sky where the Death Star used to be.

“Yes. And a lot of people to mourn, and a lot of lessons to be learned. But we also deserve to celebrate.”

Now he faces her, shifting his weight on his crutches.

“We can’t forget them.”

She’s drawn her gaze away now, eyes seeking out a distant memory. Her voice grows stronger, as if she’s declaring the promise in front of the entire Senate, the galaxy. Her own sadness forgotten.

_We aren’t alone. We never were._

“We will make their sacrifices worth it. Their hopes will live on.”

Her eyes fall to Leia now, who, seemingly sensing their presence, turns.

Padmé’s breath catches. But Leia’s eyes are on Cassian. Her smile brightens as she approaches.

“Cassian,” she breathes, peering up at him. “I’m so glad-”

She glances down at his crutches and her expression darkens. “I can’t _believe_ -”

His eyes flicker between Leia’s eyes, narrowed in mock anger, Padmé’s eyebrows arched in curiousity.

A smile curls on his lips.

_He knows._

Padmé opens her mouth to warn him, but Cassian’s already begun to reply,

“You’re not the only Senator that was working for the Rebellion, you know.”

Leia looks at him thoughtfully, hands perched on her hips. “I suppose you’re right. Senator Amidala here was one of the first, wasn’t she?” She turns to look at her. “Papa’s told me about you. I didn’t realize you were still actively part of the Rebellion though. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“And you,” Padmé says, and she clasps her daughter’s hand. “More than you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seeing TLJ in *checks time* about 2 hours! So here's an ode to the OT and the message of love and hope.  
> I really wanted to save Bail and Breha. I really did.  
>  ~~did anyone else see the last thing Bail said to Leia? I'm crying.~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Resistance. Rebellion. Defiance. These are concepts that cannot be allowed to persist._  
>  To become a star, one must burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS for the Shattered Empire comics and Battlefront II/Operation: Cinder.

 

Padmé’s lived long enough to see wars end, twice.

Radically different each time: the rise of the Empire brought darkness, and the rise of the New Republic is bringing light to even the farthest reaches of the galaxy.

At least, she hopes it will – and she hopes it will stay that way long after her demise.

But that’s too far in the future to think about: there is still the time at hand, and the shattered remains of the Empire still circle exposed planets.

It’s hard, waiting, despite the fact she’d spent most of her life doing just that. Leia’s connection had just frizzled out of existence, black space where her report from Naboo had once been.

Padmé sighs, and hopes it's just a bad connection.

“Commander?”

She nods and swivels in her chair, heart already heavy.

“Naboo is under attack.”

* * *

Peace.

It was all Cassian had ever wanted. Not even for himself _– just the entire galaxy,_ he thinks with a smile. Easy to put in words, harder to act on, but now he can reach out and almost touch it.

Fest’s skies feel less grey, the winds less sharp, the snowflakes less pointed. Light white flakes lazily swirl outside, dusting the rooves of houses and piling up at the bottom of his window frame. He takes a gratuitous moment to peer outside.

The Imperials are still here but for the first time in history they’re on the losing side.

Soon – just this once, Cassian lets himself dream – soon enough they’ll be gone, and for the first time in any living Festian’s memory, his homeworld will be free. 

The moment is over soon enough, and he feels his spirit sink back into his scuffed boots. His blaster sits in the holster on his hip, forever a familiar weight despite its redundancy. Part of him wonders if he’ll ever feel comfortable without it.

The wind picks up in speed, and strains of its screeching make it through the thin window frame that rattles with its fervor.

He frowns and rubs his hand over his jaw, still slightly startled by the lack of stubble.  Padmé had suggested – and her daughter had demanded - he clean up a little post-Endor, if he was so insistent on returning to Fest in a less militant role.

It still surprises him, sometimes.

He’s back on Fest.

He’s _home._

* * *

Leia enjoys flying. She supposes it’s in her blood, deep down somewhere she doesn’t really want to think about. She thinks of Luke, briefly, and how much the name Skywalker suits him. She thinks of her mother, her birth mother, and supposes her blood family isn’t too bad after all.

Leia wonders if her mother’s ever flown one of these.

Then a TIE fighter comes screeching into her viewport and she fires.

“Nice shot, your Highness!”

Lieutenant Bey’s voice is loud and clear over the Naboo starfighter’s aging comm systems.

“Thanks, Shara. Actually, this is pretty fun. I’d like to do this more often if it didn’t mean, well, _that.”_

She spares a fleeting glance out of the corner of her eye at the tempests swirling on Naboo’s surface.

“Seconded, Princess,” Queen Soruna says from her position to Leia’s right. “Now, let’s shoot down these buggers and go home.”

“Affirmative, your respective highnesses.”

They soar in space, three birds picking off each of the Imperial Remnant’s satellites one by one. They fly in tandem, and as Leia settles into a comfortable pattern, part of her soul seems to glitter in the light of the stars.

 _It’s nice up here,_ she thinks. The ease of her grip on the console surprises her, as well as the speed with which she picks off targets. Soon all that remain of the satellites is stardust, and Leia can already see the swirls over Naboo begin to fade away.

“Looks like the Princess is trying to come after my job,” Shara exclaims.

“Maybe in another lifetime,” Leia retorts with a grin. “Unless you’d like to swap and take up politics.”

“Um, no thank you, your Highness, I’d rather shoot my enemies instead of try and make small talk with them.”

Leia rolls her eyes and sighs emphatically, garnering a chuckle from Queen Soruna.

* * *

The sky is burning.

That’s the only way Cassian can put it.

The already viciously icy winds of Fest have been whipped up into a lethal frenzy. The sky is a shade above pure darkness, grey enough to see dark clouds swirl above. Brilliant white flashes streak deep within the storm clouds and rain, _actual rain_ , pelts the thin roof above his head like a war drum.

Fest is dying, and these are its final gasps.

* * *

“Honestly, we shouldn’t even be surprised,” Leia says, stopping and turning on her heel to face her companion. “The Emperor decided if he couldn’t have the galaxy, nobody can. What a villainous creep.”

Iden Versio nods, adrenaline from the firefight – and her defection – still coursing through her veins. “First Vardos, now Naboo, who’s next?”

“Let’s hope we never have to find out,” Leia says, and her comlink blinks to life.

 _Fark,_ she mutters under her breath, _just as things were starting to clear up_.

The volley of incoming messages is mostly just things she’d lost to the Imperial blockade, so she scrolls with disinterest –

_What’s happening on Naboo?_

_Under attack._

_The Princess?_

– until a familiar signature catches her eye, message screaming in block red letters.

* * *

Rain falls in icy sheets, now, and amid the booms of thunder Cassian can hear the shrieks of TIE fighters. 

The lights fizzle out one by one, and he can feel the building creak under the strain of bombardment.

It’s not the first time Cassian grimly accepts his fate.

_I’m going to die here._

Fest is home, and he’d rather it’d happen here than anywhere else. But there was a certain irony, as if he can feel the universe relishing in his misfortune. For him to live to witness the falls of Death Stars and tyrannical Empires only to be blown up into smithereens by abnormally large hailstones.

Wasn’t it mere hours ago that he’d felt hope, freedom, just within his reach?

For it to be so ruthlessly yanked away, ghosting across his flailing grasp – it saps all the energy out of his weary bones.

He’s never resigned himself to inaction, however: as long as he can fight, he will. 

Cassian will save as many as he can.

His free hand makes a fist as the message is sent.

_Fest under attack. Please advise or send reinforcements._

* * *

“I can’t,” Padmé says, voice strained as she leans into her comlink, “officially send forces to Fest. I know this is _exactly_ what we’ve been trying to avoid in the New Republic, but the majority of the fleet is still busy on Naboo. I think these attacks were coordinated, there are too many similarities and the Remnant knows the Republic would favour Naboo over-”

“So that means…” Cassian’s voice sounds hollow, and she’s sure it’s not just the failing connection. Padmé can almost feel his distraught through the flickering blue of his image.

She shakes her head.

“Must we fight on our own? We hardly have the firepower to take out their satellites - not that that ever stopped us,” he says, and there’s a hard glint in his eye. Padmé almost wants to smile.

“The New Republic may not be able to spare the resources, but I can,” she says, and slaps her palm against the table. “The Republic was the Rebellion before anything else, and the blood in its veins is ours - _yours_ , Cassian. Hold on. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Chandrila is a far cry from Fest. But she will do what she must.

Something in Cassian’s expression changes, or perhaps it is a flicker of static.

“Leia’s on Naboo, isn’t she?”

His tone isn’t accusatory. It never was emotional with her, always merely conversational. But Padmé can’t restrain the feeling uncoiling in her gut, and closes her eyes, briefly.

“She is.” Her eyes snap open. “And you’re my niece’s age, Cassian, so I’m not playing favourites.”

He shakes his head.

“That’s not what I meant. She’s the figurehead of the Rebellion and now the Republic, it only makes sense. And you still haven’t heard from-”

The connection fizzes out completely, and for the second time in a day Padmé finds herself staring at empty space.

The old gods of her homeworld spring to mind, and for the second time in a day she murmurs a prayer.

_Please, let them be safe._

* * *

Leia stares pointedly at the signature that could only be Cassian’s.

Cassian, who’d returned to life on the front lines after Scarif. Cassian, who’d gone home to Fest after Endor.

Cassian, who’d taught her how to hold a blaster the _right_ way, and how to keep the lid on one’s demons and disgust firmly shut.

_Fest under attack. Please advise or send reinforcements._

“Any problems, your Highness?” Iden asks cautiously, gaze respectfully pointed away from Leia’s comlink.

Leia meets the newly defected Commander’s eyes and snaps her comlink shut. “We’re not done with these Imperials yet, I’m afraid. Off to Fest we go.”

She gives Iden a onceover.

“I hope you packed warmer clothes.”

* * *

Maybe this is how it will end: the wind sweeping the hair out of his eyes, screaming around him as he stands knee-deep in snow.

He’d done his best. He’s already ushered everyone into the bunkers, leaving the defenseless as safe as they could be until the Republic could arrive. Those who chose to fight beside him still wear icy masks of determination.

Cassian looks through the scope of his rifle one last time, sees the TIE coming in the distance, and the troopers filling his viewfinder.

 _I’ve seen too much of the galaxy through this thing,_ he thinks, and then another ship swoops out of nowhere and the TIE disappears in a burst of light, taking the stormtroopers with it.

A single ship emerges from the grey plume of smoke.

“Glad to see me, Andor?” Leia’s voice comes to life over his earpiece.

“You couldn’t have shown up earlier?” he scoffs in return, but a grin plasters his face.

“She had to bring some friends.” _Shara,_ he thinks, and his smile widens. “So we got a little delayed.”

“Time to take out some Imps, rebels!” Leia exclaims. “And defend our good friend’s homeworld. Show them how it’s done!”

* * *

By the time the Republic Fleet arrives on Fest under Commander Amidala’s leadership, they are greeted by an odd sight.

A Princess, a former Senator, and the former leader of Inferno Squad fight side-by-side, shooting down stormtroopers left and right, sending bodies plummeting into snowdrifts and skittering across icy paths.

Above, Rebel war-heroes led by Lieutenant Bey soar and focus their sights on the satellites wreaking havoc on the former Separatist planet’s atmosphere.

“An unlikely alliance, don’t you think, Commander?” her aide remarks, and Padmé grins for the first time since the war began.

The galaxy may have forgotten, but she remembers.

(A Queen, two Jedi, a Gungan, and a former slave save the day.)

* * *

* * *

It’s a lighter, fluffier, whiter snow that the little boy chases, haphazard tracks marking his journeys on the ground.

Cassian catches him then, scooping him up under the arms and the boy scrambles to get a perch on his shoulders.

“Time to eat, Poe,” he says, “you can play some more later.”

Cassian ducks as they enter his home, setting Poe back on the ground to help him unzip his coat and pull off his boots, grateful that Fest had healed enough that the boy didn’t need a gas mask just to go outside.

“Will there still be snow?”

“Yes, there will be _more_ snow, actually. If you want, we can make something in the snow later, like a tookacat or a tauntaun!”

Poe shakes his head, loose curls swaying with the motion.

“I want Bee-bee.”

Cassian grins, unwinding his own scarf and setting his gloves on a nearby table. “We can make a snow-BB8 if that’s what you want.” Poe grins up at him, wide smile nearly splitting the five-year-old’s face in two.

Lunch awaits them and steam curls from the dish when Cassian pulls it from the oven. Once he’s ready, Poe perches on his favourite spot to eat – Cassian’s lap, apparently.

He doesn’t mind.

When Kes had frantically appealed for Cassian to watch over his son for a standard week – something about in-laws and surprising Shara with some time to herself – Cassian had immediately agreed, only to be plagued with worry as soon as Poe had been dropped off at his front door.

Would Poe even like him? They’d met a handful of times before but Cassian doubted that the child would ever warm up to a reserved former solider.

But Poe’s brilliant personality had proven otherwise, and he’d immediately taken a liking to   
_tío Cassie_. Cassian had plenty of toned-down stories of faraway planets and the Rebellion the boy loved to hear. The fact that snow is unheard of on Yavin IV was a surprising bonus.

There was also the endless thread of visitors for Cassian, both political and otherwise, and all the tales they brought with them.

To Poe, Fest seems like a paradise.

But for all that Poe liked him, was Cassian fulfilling all the child’s needs?

The past still held a fervent grip on his own mind so the prospect of dealing with Poe’s own nightmares was as daunting as ever.

Cassian tried his best. Having lived through war at such a young age he figured he would be able to soothe any of Poe’s anxieties, but the whole point of Cassian’s life was to ensure Poe wouldn’t have to live through the same things.

He remembers Poe’s second night and how Cassian had opened the door to his room just before Poe had woken up of his own accord, eyes bleary with the remains of a nightmare clutching to the backs of his eyelids. All of Cassian’s worries personified into one, terrible cry.

_\- I want my mamá!_

_\- I know. I want mine too._

Poe had looked up at him curiously, and Cassian cherrypicked the brightest moments of Esper Andor’s life to ease the child back into sleep.

He sighs.

“Are you thinking hard again?” Poe asks, spoon clutched precariously in his grip.

Cassian smiles, and ruffles the boy’s hair.

“A little. Do you like your mamá’s or papá’s cooking better?”

Poe stares at him, wide eyed, as he processes the question.

“Yours is better, I thiiiink,” he says, stretching out the vowel. “Papá likes to bake.”

Cassian looks to him in surprise just as his comm chirps with an incoming call. Poe moves to get off his lap but Cassian nods for him to stay as he swipes the call open.

“Andor! Good to see you. And hello Poe!”

Poe waves at the shimmering blue figure and Cassian grins. “Hi Leia. How are things?”

Leia rolls her eyes. “You know better than to ask. Rebuilding the Senate from scratch is fulfilling but boy, does it take a lot of energy.” She sighs, then lifts her eyes to meet Cassian’s. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the galaxy.”

He nods, the depth of her statement not lost on him. “How’s Ben?”

“Thankfully, well behaved,” she smiles, eyes flickering to Poe. “And is Poe doing well?”

“Better than I could’ve imagined,” Cassian grins as Poe turns to look at him. “It’s true, buddy.” The boy smiles brightly, and snuggles back into his arms. “Everyone here loves him.”

Leia grins. “That’s good to hear.”

“So, why the call?”

Leia nods, and then the conversation turns to matters of the Senate and outreach towards the Outer Rim. She peppers him with questions, finally asking him whether he’d be willing to help the Senate with documenting the Empire’s war crimes, restructuring their legislation to include planets with smaller populations like Fest, and whether he’d be interested in becoming a Senator again.

Poe’s head begins to droop towards the crook of Cassian’s elbow as he says yes to all but the last one.

“I think I’ve had enough of the Senate.”

“You sound like my mother,” Leia grins, for Padmé had officially retired from politics to return to Naboo, only to work as advisor to Queen Soruna and tutor the next batch of potential monarchs.

“I think I’ll follow her lead. I already know a few kids who I’d like to see as Senator,” Cassian muses, thinking of the youngest and most vocal members of Fest’s resistance, the ones he’d begun to instruct like Padmé and Bail had done for himself and Leia.

Leia laughs at the remark just as Cassian lunges for the plate teetering from Poe’s faltering grasp, snatching it away from an untimely demise on the floor.

“Now you _really_ sound like my mother.”

They fall silent for a moment, the room filled by the sound of Poe’s slow, even breathing.

“It’s weird, you know. Being able to convincingly talk about the future in such a positive way,” Leia says, and Cassian’s eyes flicker to Poe sleeping in his arms.

He nods. “I hoped the day would come, but I never thought I’d live to see it.”

“You’re _such_ a pessimist, Andor,” Leia scoffs with a slight grin, but her eyes betray her inner thoughts. “I do wish they were here to see it too.”

Cassian understands her sentiments immediately. His thoughts travel from Bail and Breha to his own parents and everyone else he’d lost – sacrificed, sometimes - to get here, and the voice in his mind that guilts him for deciding others’ fates threatens to grow arms and choke the life out of him.

He pulls Poe closer.

“But it’s okay, I guess,” Leia continues. “Their generation was the last to cause all this evil, and the first to put the remedy in motion. Our job was to fix things, and theirs,” Leia says, just as her own son climbs up into view, and she juts her chin forward to indicate Poe, “Is to carry the light onwards and outwards.”

Poe stirs in his arms, and Cassian runs a hand through his curls.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me on this little AU journey! I hope it was satisfying as it was for me to see all these characters interact! Happy New Year!


End file.
